


A Meal for Birds

by oisiflaneur



Series: Metal Now [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2016-05-05
Packaged: 2018-06-03 08:52:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6604564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oisiflaneur/pseuds/oisiflaneur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Alpha unit is sent out for field testing with a member of the public. It doesn't go quite as expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. rob you of your game face

**Author's Note:**

> "for the next au, i'm going to FINALLY write some cute fluffy garbage with my favorite pairings being sweet and domestic!" i said.
> 
> what a fucking fool i was.
> 
> somehow a pwp idea just... snowballed hugely. and now, here we are. the title is subject to change, and i'll have to add tags as more info is posted, but apparently i'm buckled in for this crazy ride. i can only hope that you'll come along with me. :'>
> 
>  **content warnings** don't apply for the intro, but eventually this is gonna be dealing with heavy themes of suicide, abuse, and dehumanization / systematic abuse. oh, and probably some pretty graphic boning, given how this started.
> 
> my general writing tag is [here](http://oisiflaneur.tumblr.com/tagged/graywrites) for drabbles and news!

The Counselor calls it his delivery date; like he’s too stupid to get the double meaning.

“Today is a very special day,” he says as they exit the building, holding open the door a company car. It’s clean and sleek, polished to shine, but small enough not to attract too much attention. “Today is your birthday.” 

He spends the ride prattling on about what it means to enter the world, to become a part of society, blah blah blaaaah. It’s nothing that Church hasn’t heard before a dozen times over. Every single moment in the workshop for the past two weeks has been preparing for this; tests upon quizzes upon simulations upon tests. All of it meant to prepare him to meet his new guardian.

Who, apparently, doesn’t really want to meet _him_.

The Counselor rings the buzzer once, and waits for nearly a minute. He sends Church what is probably meant to be a reassuring smile before he presses the button again, returning his hands to their resting position, clasped behind his back.

Finally, their response is announced with a burst of static. “Who is it?”

A man’s voice, Church notes. Well, he can work with that. Maybe they can talk about sports, or something.

“A representative of Necessity Labs, sir.” The Counselor says smoothly, as though he hasn’t been standing outside the front door for what is now two minutes and twentysix seconds. 

“I’ve dealt with enough _representatives_ in the last few weeks, thanks.” 

The Counselor just forges onwards smoothly, his voice honeyed by the smile on his face, sincere or not. “There’s a rather critical matter I’d like to discuss with you. If you’re busy right now, we can always come back tomorrow. Or the next day. We can certainly come back _any_ time that would be more convenient for you.”

There’s a part of Church -- a tiny, begrudging part -- that thinks _oh, you clever piece of shit_ as the intercom goes silent.

Another seven seconds, and then: “Fine. Fourteenth floor. Let’s get this over with.”

* * *

“Counselor.” The man behind the threshold says the title without much emotion, his face carefully passive. Church scans him from top to bottom and back again, taking note of his appearance; from the faded jeans, to the clean sweatshirt, to the blond streak that’s a few weeks past needing a fresh bleaching. Everything about his posture screams defensive, the body language version of _get off of my porch_.

The facade cracks when he looks down, but only for an instant. Church catches it nonetheless, cataloguing the way his eyes go wide and his mouth hangs slack for a moment, before it’s replaced by clenched teeth.

“What. The fuck. Is this.” He says, his voice low and dangerous. 

The Counselor places a palm on Church’s back, nudging him forward gently. “This is your new Triple P Sim, of course. Necessity Industries wanted to make clear its gratitude, for your understanding and patience, particularly while the will is--”

“Is this some kind of joke?” He mutters so low that it’s practically a hiss, interrupting as though the Counselor hasn’t said anything, and Church risks a sideways glance to see how that goes over.

But _the representative_ has still got that infuriatingly calm drone: what Church has come to think of as his Subject Voice. “Is there a problem, David?” 

“Don’t call me that, we’re not friends.” NotDavid replies instantly, as though it’s a kneejerk reaction. Shaking his head, he points at the bald man before him, jabbing an index finger towards his chest. “And I _know_ what that is. I also know that I was _very, very specific_ about getting a different model. I don’t want this one.”

Church shrugs expansively, tapping his chaperone’s upper arm and taking a step towards the elevator. “Welp, you heard the man. Can we go back to the labs, now? I didn’t even get to talk to Tu--”

“ _You._ Stop talking.” The man turns his hand to point at Church, without moving his eyes from the Counselor. 

“ _Excuse_ me?” Church protests, taking the step back towards the both of them, brows knitted and shoulders raised. 

He’s completely ignored.

“You _were_ very specific, officer Washington.” The smile on the Counselor’s face never _seems_ forced; but out of habit, Church takes a peek at his vitals, and notes with some petty pleasure that his pulse is spiking slightly. Probably thanks to the nearly six feet of muscle and stubble that’s starting to crane over him. 

But, even that doesn’t seem to stem the words. “Unfortunately, the Director was _quite_ insistent that unit Alpha is the _only_ unit fit for field testing at the moment. He was also quite insistent that you be the first to receive an active model. As a… Show of goodwill, as it were.”

The explanation doesn’t go over well. “I don’t really _care_ what the Director was insistent about.” Washington spits, folding his arms. “I didn’t want one of these in the first place, so if you want me to play along with your little publicity stunt, you’re going to have to give me a different model. _Any_ of them." He jerks his head towards Church, still refusing to look at him. "As long as they don’t look like _him_.”

The change takes place faster than the human eye can follow. Hiked shoulders shift into fully raised hackles as Church steps forward, getting between the two of them. “Hey! What the fuck, dickweed!” He throws an arm out; pushing the Counselor back, but more importantly, communicating his frustration. “What, I’m not good enough? You want some pretty, petite maidbot? C’mon, I’m a _conversasim!_ I can read your emails as well as anybot else. This is some _next level_ discrimination, fuck.”

As Church catches the illusion of breath, the stranger levels a stare at the Counselor, his jaw still clenched. “... You people can never just make it _easy_ , can you?”

The Counselor’s voice doesn’t change at all. “It’s my job to make things as easy as possible, officer.” 

He doesn’t seem bothered by the door slammed in his face.

* * *

“So. Alpha, is it?” 

Having gone from the labs to the car to the apartment, there’s no dirt to kick out of his shoes, and the sim pushes past Washington into the living space proper. “Ugh. No. Look, just call me Church.”

“I’m not going to do that.” The answer is instantaneous, and sharp. Church doesn’t react externally, but makes a note of the vehemence; militant atheist, maybe?

Whatever the reason, this is a sticking point. He crosses his arms and stands up a little straighter. “Uuuuuh, well, that’s my name. So if you want me to respond, you’re going to have to use it, buddy.”

Washington pinches the bridge of his nose, a sigh escaping through it. “I thought you things were supposed to be, I don’t know. Helpful. Or at the _very_ least, obedient.”

“Hah! You wish.” As if to make his point, Church flops down onto a threadbare couch and puts his heels up on the coffee table, settling into a depression in the cushions like he’d always been there. “Nah, if you want one of those, you’re gonna have to get yourself a T2T or something like that. We’re all about being as close to ‘human’ as possible -- except, you know, better.”

“Right. So, you’re an asshole.”

“Hey! _You’re_ the one who judges books by their covers.” He leans forward, a scowl pulling at the bottom of his mouth. “Seriously, what was up with that? I’ll have you know that I’m one of the _better_ looking models in the pool, dipshit. You’re lucky!”

“Yeah, I can see that.” His new guardian says drily, grabbing the toe of his sneaker and shifting his feet to drop them to the floor. “Look, I’m barely here lately _anyway_ , so just. Try to stay out of my way.”

Church rolls his eyes, his mouth screwed up disapprovingly. “Uh, hello? Not that I don’t appreciate the leeway, but I am sort of supposed to be _sort of_ helpful. I’m not gonna do your dishes or anything, fuck that. But I can take your messages, manage the budget, you know… Maybe organize your docs, and shit.”

“ _Don’t_. H-- I have a system. I like them how they are.”

Sims don’t _need_ to breathe, strictly speaking; the bellows in their chest cavities work as a cooling system, allowing air to circulate just above the heat sink at their core. That air doesn’t even need to have oxygen, and unless their liquidproofing is damaged, they can function just fine underwater.

But some things have more than a biological purpose. So Church heaves the mother of all sighs, sinking onto the couch and practically oozing down the pillows. “Come oooooon! You’re telling me that they _finally_ send me out for consumer testing, and you don’t even want to use me?”

Despite the flush creeping up behind his freckles, the man scowls at that, before he turns and stalks into the kitchen without another word.

“Hey! What the hell, dude! I’m talking to you!” Church swings his weight onto his heels, trotting after him. “Are you at least gonna give me something to call you? I assume we aren’t _friends_ , so apparently ‘David’ is too forward.” There’s something akin to a smirk tugging at one side of his mouth, and he clasps his hands behind his back -- he learned a _lot_ from the Counselor, and not all of it during lessons -- tilting his head a few degrees in an affectation of curiosity.

The answer isn’t as swift as before; but after a few long moments with his hands flat on the counter, the stranger finally deigns to reply. “Washington is fine.”

Church rolls his eyes again, and leans against the refrigerator. “Alright there, Wash.” He doesn’t know why he settles on that, but it just feels natural. He’s already calling up the Necessity employment records, scrolling through and coming up emptyhanded for _David Washington_ ; for any _Washington_ s at all. He tries _Washbourne_ , then _George_ \-- just in case. Nothing. Maybe his initials are D. M. V.?

His train of thought is interrupted by a single syllable, soft and quiet. “Don’t.” It’s almost lost in the ambient drone of background noise that makes city life what it is. Church probably only catches it because his audio receptors are tuned for it; the engineers seemed to think that if they whispered, he wouldn’t know that they were talking about him. He’s made a habit of nosiness ever since they loaded him with the prototype for their new security system. Without asking.

So, for a given value of _hear_ , he hears something that he’s probably not supposed to. It would be easiest -- safest, at least -- to pretend otherwise, let sleeping dogs lie. 

In his short life, Church hasn’t made a habit of easy, or safe.

“Fine, Washington it is, then. But if I call you what _you_ want, then you gotta call me what _I_ want.” He folds his arms, still scowling. “And that’s Church. None of this _unit_ or _serial number_ bullshit. Like, fuck! The _one_ thing I was looking forward to out in the socalled _real world_ , and I get sent out to the _one_ douchebag who won’t even respect that.”

He can’t see Washington’s expression, but he can see him hunch over another degree and lift a hand to run his palm down his face. “Fine. Fine. Whatever you want, Church.”

“Alright. Glad we had this chat.” His tone is sardonic, but Church is more than a little smug; he’s won the first confrontation with his new guardian. And hopefully, in the process, set the standard for any future _altercations._ He turns back out of the kitchen to explore the apartment; get used to his surroundings, and maybe stake out where the power outlets lie.

But his audio is still tuned to low voices, and before he leaves the room, he catches something Washington mumble something under his breath.

“You _always_ have to get your way.”


	2. cower beneath your words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this... may end up being longer than i had anticipated. i'm gonna make myself take a break to finish up some words i owe people, but i really, _really_ like robot aus. i also really, _really_ like stupid domestic bullshit. so this is the best of both worlds for me!! wash's cats _aren't_ ari and skylar for a reason, but i didn't get to it in this chapter. both are rescues, and the calico's missing leg is the back left. also, there doesn't seem to be a tag for alpha/wash??? so idk this church can be whichever church your heart desires.
> 
>  **content warnings** for this chapter are mentions of alcohol, ablism ( directed at animals ), and some really detailed descriptions of food. seriously, i gave myself _such_ a goddam craving.
> 
> my general writing tag is [here](http://oisiflaneur.tumblr.com/tagged/graywrites) for drabbles and news!

It takes a little while, the minutes stretching on to nearly an hour, but Washington eventually seems to recover enough to come looking for him. He finds Church in the bathroom, crouched down to investigate the contents of the cupboard under the sink. It's mostly bleach; a spray bottle for tile, and a twist cap for hair.

“Okay, uuuh… Look, what am I supposed to do with you?”

“Uh, lemme see. Why don’t you try treating me like you would treat anybody else, asshole.” Rising to a stand, Church makes sure that his guardian can see him roll his eyes. “You _do_ get that you’re supposed to be, like, socializing me, or whatever. Right?”

The frown Washington wears is just a _tad_ lopsided, Church notes; he only has a dimple on one side. “Right. Okay. Then I’m just going to pretend you’re like any roommate that got dumped on me through the personals.” He points in one direction down the hall, and then the other. “The litterboxes are at the ends of the hallway, and there’s another in the bedroom. I let Buddy and Kylie come and go as they please, and I’m not going to expect you to deal with taking care of them, or anything. But I like my privacy, so stay out of my room.”

“Jesus christ, dude. What is this, a three and a half? Four and a half? Where do you expect me to hang out?” Now that he’s standing, Church reaches to pull open the mirror above the sink, curious about the contents of the cabinet. 

He yanks his hand back when Washington slams it closed again, his own palm splayed against the glass and voice suddenly a few degrees colder. “You can _hang out_ right where you have been. There’s nothing wrong with the living room.”

Church narrows his eyes, unaware that he’s pouting slightly. “Isn’t there a spare room, here? I _know_ I saw another door. Why don’t I just take over that? Once you give me the wireless password, I’ll be keeping myself occupied, it’s not like I take much space--”

“ _No._ ” Suddenly, Washington is almost frightening, his fists clenched at his sides and just barely shaking. “No. That’s off limits. _I_ don’t even go in there.” 

It’s the wrong thing to say; it just leaves Church confused and, even worse, curious. “Uuuuuh, why not? This _is_ your house, right?” He leans back a degree, looking Washington up and down. “... You’re not a serial killer or something, right?” 

He drags a hand down his face, sighing through his nose, before he opens his eyes to look directly at the sim. “Listen. It’s storage. Just... Don’t go in there, alright?”

Letting out a _huff_ , Church pushes past him and into the hallway, glaring up at Washington spitefully over his shoulder as he makes his way to the living room. “Fine, _whatever._ I guess I’ll just spend all of my time in one place. Good thing I’m physically incapable of getting out of shape, huh?”

“Tell it to somebody who cares.” Washington shoots back as he retreats to the apparent safety of his bedroom; and that's that. End of discussion.

* * *

Unfortunately, not much is sacred to Church.

“Hey, are you gonna eat anything?” He calls through the crack in the door, holding onto the post with one hand.

Washington blinks, startled, and looks up from his reading. A quiet _huh?_ escapes him, having been shaken out of his focus by the intrusion.

Remembering the rules and not wanting to push his luck _too_ much, Church keeps his distance, wearing a serious expression. “I _said_ , are you gonna eat anything. You haven’t since I got here, so even if you ate like, right before that, it’s been at least seven hours and fortythree minutes since you did.”

Brows furrowing, Washington squints up at him. “Why do you care?” 

“I don’t. Did it ever occur to you that maybe _I_ want something?” Church says it flatly, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

It doesn’t quite get the immediate agreement that he was expecting. In fact, Washington just seems even more confused. “The hell? Why?”

His frown deepening, Church folds his arms, and dares to lean into the room proper. “Uh, because they didn’t let me have anything in the labs?” 

Washington looks unimpressed, his eyes flicking back down to the screen, probably trying to communicate that his attention is waning. “And you _never_ thought that there might be a reason for that.”

Church’s expression evolves into a scowl. “Yeah, and the reason is that they’re all a bunch of cheap bastards. I’m fucking _designed_ to process food, dumbass. Wouldn’t be much of a conversation partner if I can’t go out to restaurants or anything, right?” Bringing his hands up to shoulder height, he cants his head and raises the pitch of his voice, just to make sure that his mockery is properly communicated. “Oh, sure, innocent customer! I’d _love_ to accompany you out to that café. Let me just sit across from you without consuming anything, staring at you while _you_ eat and making you totally selfconscious. Now, aren’t you feeling secure about what a good investment I was?”

Washington sighs, loudly and wearily, putting his tablet down on the side table next to the bed and turning to plant his feet on the floor. “Fine, I’ll see what I have.”

He doesn’t have to; Church beat him to it. “You have a box of cereal but no milk, two bananas, and some frozen orange juice. None of which really make _dinner._ Oh, and a bottle of whiskey, but I’m going to assume from where that was tucked away that you didn’t actually want me to know that.”

Washington’s posture goes stiff, as he freezes in place, nearly at the door. “I didn’t kn-- that’s not mine.” He mumbles, his eyes clouded over.

Shorter strands of the same material their hair is made from, and painstakingly sculpted onto the faceplate; sims are given eyebrows almost exclusively to imitate human facial expressions. Church makes use of his, paired with an incredulous smirk. “Oh, yeah? Whose is it, then? You’ve only _got_ the one bedroom, so it can’t belong to anybody else. Do your cats have a problem I should know about, or something?”

“My cats aren’t alcoholics, no.” Washington turns to frown at him, before hunching his shoulders and turning the corner into the kitchen. “Look, where is it? I’ll throw it out.”

 _That_ is the wrong answer; he’s really striking out tonight. As Church bristles, those eyebrows come right back down, directly correlating to the rising volume of his voice. “Oh, like _hell_ you will! I wanna try that shit!” 

His response is Washington’s _own_ incredulous look, mouth screwed up in confusion. “Can you even _get_ drunk? Because if the answer is no, then trust me, it’s not worth the taste. Wait a second, can you even taste?”

“That’s what I wanna find out!” Church throws his hands out, still hovering in the hall, just outside the doorway. “Come on, man. It’s for science!”

“I’ve heard _that_ one before.” Washington mumbles darkly, under his breath. He probably assumes that Church doesn’t catch it. “... Well, you’re not having any tonight. If you weren’t allowed it in the labs, you aren’t allowed it here.” When Church opens his mouth to protest, he holds up his hand to cut him off. “There’s probably a _reason_ for all of those rules, Alpha. I don’t want the company getting pissed off at me for… I don’t know, breaking you, or something.”

Church narrows his eyes, crossing his arms and stepping into the kitchen, getting into Washington’s personal space to glare up at him from a few inches away. “Hey, _fuck you_. I told you already, it’s Church or nothing. And the fuck do you think field tests are _for?_ ” He continues without waiting for an answer. “They’re for figuring out what works and what doesn’t. If I get fucked up, I just go back to the lab for repairs, and then send me back out. That’s what alpha build _means._ It's not like it'll kill me, or anything.”

There’s a tiny wince at the corner of Washington’s eye, which Church only barely catches sight of, before he turns and starts opening cupboard doors. “Fine, but you’re still not getting into the booze on your first night out in the world. I’d feel like the worst owner in history.”

“Is that what you think you are?” Church laughs, taking a step back and resting his weight against the counter. “You’re just a part of the production line, Washington. They sent me out to collect data, find any bugs or flaws -- not that I’ve _got_ any -- and all that shit. Once they’ve got enough, it’s back to the lab to put it to use on the rest of us. I’m just a prototype.” He tries not to let his tone turn bitter; he's just stating the facts. Objectively.

“Well. I guess that shouldn’t be surprising.” Washington’s eyes harden again. “The Director never was one for gifts, at least not without strings attached.” He shoots a look at the android, before turning his attention to frown at his bare cupboards ( what the _hell_ was he ever going to use icing sugar for? church poked around earlier, and there’s nothing to bake with ). “Maybe that’ll make things easier.”

But Church can be, well, singleminded. Or singleprocessored, he guesses. “Dude. Are you gonna have dinner, or not? Come on, just order something." He brightens up slightly, acting as though something just occurred to him, and wasn't his goal through this entire discussion. "I _really_ wanna try pizza.”

 _That_ gets his attention. “ _Seriously?_ Where did you even hear about delivery?”

“I’m a sim, not a fucking _hermit_ , man. I know what junk food is. You think they didn’t give us basic cultural education?”

* * *

Pizza, he discovers, is an education unto itself. 

Washington doesn’t let him answer the door -- or even go near it -- which is fine, since it’s not as though Church has a wallet. So when he comes back balancing two flat boxes on one palm and lugging a bottle of soda in the other, Church is still perched on the couch, peering up expectantly.

“You want me to get plates, or…” He trails off when Church grabs the box on top, flipping it open with a grin. “Nevermind. Guess that _is_ your plate. Not exactly sure what I expected, there.”

“Dude. Shut the fuck up. This is a big moment.” Church shoots back, but there’s a grin on his face, and none of the usual venom in his tone. When he pulls a piece out, the cheese doesn’t stretch the way that he thought it would ( the way it does onscreen ), but it’s hot and melty, and he doesn’t hesitate before shoving the tip of the triangle into his mouth.

He knows, instantly, that everything he eats from this point onward will have to live up to this moment. He has to catalogue _all of it._ Everything. From the _crunch_ and powdery leftover grains of flour of the bottom of the crust, to the hot wet tang of the sauce on his tongue, to the soft salty chewiness of the cheese. His internals were built sensitive to alert him to potential damages, but right now that just means that having never ingested anything, the texture and flavor and _everything_ are so intense that it’s almost overwhelming. If he could, he might possibly cry.

And he hadn’t even gotten to a bite with the toppings on it, yet.

He’s so absorbed that he doesn’t notice it when Washington places the soda on the coffee table, and settles down: next to him, instead of on the armchair a few feet away.

“Holy _shit._ ” Church manages to mumble, muffled around his mouthful of halfway masticated bread, marinara, and mozzarella. “Food is _so fucking good._ ” 

It earns him a snort, as well as something could almost be mistaken for a genuine smile. “You _do_ know that pizza isn’t exactly… You know, high cuisine. This is just from the joint down the street.”

“Washington?” With something that’s uncomfortably close to mourning, Church swallows, without noticing his eyelids flutter just a fraction. “Shut the fuck up.”

His next bite delivers a cube of pineapple and a thin sliver of bacon, the fat rubbery and undercooked, atop the cheese. He has to stop himself from moaning around it when it melts in his port, salt and sweetness mingling on his tongue.

* * *

The empty, greasestained box is still sitting open in front of Church on the table, when Washington comes into the living room the next morning. “Oh, thank _fucking god_. It’s about time.” He groans at him from the couch, sitting up crosslegged and scowling. “I’ve been stuck here for, like, two hours.”

Splayed out in his lap, three paws askew, is a calico bundle of fur; its purring is a strange kind of stopandstart creaking, but the eyes are closed in sleepy contentment. Looking slightly more alert is the larger black and white cat, propped up against his thigh.

“I guess they like you.” Washington says without much emotion, making to walk straight past all three of them, but apparently he can’t resist the opportunity for a jab. “Wonder what _that’s_ all about.”

“Ha, ha. You’re hilarious.” The sim darts a hand out as he walks towards the kitchen, grabbing his shirt. “Come on, you’ve gotta move them!”

“Why can’t you do it?” Washington deadpans, unimpressed.

Church's scowl intensifies: it’s not as though he hasn’t _tried_. “They make this _awful fucking noise_ every time.”

Washington just sighs, leaning over to pick the longhair up under the elbows and hiking it up over his shoulder; in response, it _yowls_ and digs its claws into his shirt. “Something like that?” Church frowns up at him as he sifts into his subroutines, looking for some linked concepts that might be the reason he dislikes that sound so much. Something about it sounds upset, or almost _hurt_ , and it kicks his problemsolving into overdrive; somehow they seem to trigger the _fix the distress_ algorithms that are supposed to make him helpful to whichever biped ends up housing him.

“Yeah, something like that.” He unfolds his legs and puts his feet flat on the floor, rising slowly in an attempt to keep the other one from being too disturbed. It doesn’t work, and the larger cat’s head flops into the space where Church’s leg was a moment ago, eyes wide and startled. “Seriously, they were on me practically all night.”

“Do you generate a lot of heat, or something? They like the warmth... Kylie especially. Used to find her curled up on top of the computer tower.” Stroking its back with his free hand, Washington goes silent for a long moment, staring down at the sim. He opens his mouth, before snapping it shut and shaking his head, turning away. Still holding the patchwork one, Washington makes his way to the kitchen, before putting it down gently in front of the food bowls. Seemingly taking the hint, the other one stumbles to its paws and hops down off the couch with a solid _thump_ , starting to whine, nudging the first out of the way.

Watching this, it occurs to Church that neither of them have a nametag. “Hey, so.” He says, peeking over them through the doorway, catching sight of Washington digging a cup’s worth of kibble out of a huge, paper bag tucked away in one of the lower cupboards. “Which of these little shits is which?”

“Shit _ettes_. They’re both girls.” Washington corrects him, crouching to dump the food into the dry bowl. He picks up the other one, with and takes it to the sink to rinse it out and refill it. “Kylie is the calico, and the tuxedo is Buddy.”

“Buddy? That’s a weird name for a girl.”

“It wasn’t my-- It wasn’t my idea.” Sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose, Washington takes a moment to breathe, seemingly trying to calm himself. “We didn't get them at the same time. I named Kylie, and then my… My ex insisted on naming the other one. Said that I chose names ‘like a white suburban mom’, I believe his words were.” 

That earns a snort. “Kylie _does_ kinda sound like some toddler in a pink dress at the end of a culdesac. Not, you know, some gimpy little furball.”

“ _Don’t._ ” Washington’s nose wrinkles with distaste. “Took me forever to break him of _that_ habit, too. I don’t feel like going through it all over again with… Well. With _you_.”

Church is about to open his mouth to protest, but closes it again when he realizes that he’s on the receiving end of another glare; for some reason, Washington doesn’t really look pissed at him. He just looks _tired_ , maybe even sad. So Church makes a note in his logs, flags the word as offlimits, and adds a line about not being _too_ rude to the cats. He’s not particularly sure why, either.

His own reaction unsettles him, so he just scoffs a _“Fine!”_ and turns back into the living room, throwing his weight back onto the couch. He realizes belatedly that this actually _lessens_ the distance between them, when Washington leans through the interior window to flick the back of his head, without having to leave the kitchen. “Be nice. They’ve been here longer than you, that means they rank higher.”

* * *

Apparently, the human sense of smell was one of the hardest to imitate, and Church’s is still weak. But his sight is just fine, better than human -- not to mention more complex, data overlaid in pale blue across his field of vision -- and he spots a full pot on the burner. Judging by the temperature, it can't be more than five minutes old.

“Oh _shit_ , is that coffee?” He inquires, despite knowing full well what it is.

Looking up from washing his dishes, Washington almost looks like he’s going to smile for an instant, before turning away again, his voice cold. “I’ll bring you some in a minute or so. You’re not touching anything in here.”

“What! How is that fair!”

“Life isn’t fair, Al-- Church.” He almost seems to have to force the word out. “The last person who lived here couldn’t even _touch_ the oven without turning the place into a complete disaster, so. I take care of the cooking. Those're the rules.”

Church snorts, the smile dropping off of his face. “Great. Punished for the sins of another. Your ex seems like he was a real catch.”

There’s a muffled clatter when Washington drops the bowl, dulled by the soapy water it has to sink through. “ _Out._ ”

Something about his tone doesn’t leave _any_ room for argument, and Church sulks his way back to what is becoming His Spot on the couch. The television hasn’t been on since he arrived -- apparently Washington is more of a _reading_ before bedtime kind of guy, go figure -- but he snatches up the remote and flicks it on to channel surf.

“Here.” He hears a minute later, as Washington puts a mug a few inches behind Church’s head, forcing him to turn around to grab it off the counter. “You’re welcome.”

Church blows a raspberry at him, grabbing the the mug with both hands and taking a sip. With a muffled yelp, he remembers too late that his internals are still oversensitive, that the drink is fresh and _hot_ , and spits the mouthful back into his cup. When he puts it down on the table in front of him, he spills some in his rush, and there’s a thin brown ring left on the glass when he picks it up again to blow on it.

“Does that even do anything?” Washington muses as he comes in with his own mug, drinking from it casually.

Church tries not to be envious. “Do _you_ even do anything?” He shoots back; the truth is, he doesn’t know. It just somehow felt like the thing to do. But he stops, now selfconscious, and tries again with a much more restrained approach.

 _Oh shit._ Church gulps back the words, along with his second attempt, blinking slowly as a smile finds its way across his face. “ _Fuck_ , that’s some good shit.” The warmth slipping down his chute and pooling in his reservoir is different from the pizza; comforting, somehow. Almost familiar. It’s smooth and _achingly_ sweet. He takes another, and a port full of liquid is the only reason he doesn’t say _I could get used to this_. 

Washington snorts, taking a step down the hallway, towards his bedroom. “Double cream, triple sugar, right? Good way to ruin a perfectly decent coffee.” 

Tilting the mug back to dole out another sip, Church blinks and peers at him over the rim. “Huh? Well, yeah, I guess. Is that what this is?” Distracted by heat and taste, it takes him a moment to fully process what was just said. “Wait, is this not how _you_ like it?”

But if Washington heard him, he’s choosing to ignore him, closing the bedroom door with a _click_ that somehow resounds with finality.


	3. a freak from the same place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY SO... unfortunately it looks like this one is definitely going to be a series... so now i'm just desperately trying to keep this instalment to the projected number of chapters while still making sense as a standalone, and the followup and side stories are gonna have to wait until i get some commission work out of the way. 
> 
> this is rough as hell and i'll need to come back to it for the usual round of tweaks but i also need tO BE RID OF IT, PLEASE JUST TAKE THE SAD GAYS AWAY FROM ME. please, before it's too late. i blinked and this chapter was longer than everything so far. please rescue me from domestic robot aus.
> 
>  **content warnings** are that now we're actually getting into the stuff about suicide, familial and corporate abuse, mourning... you know, the usual rvb fare. 
> 
> finally, my writing tag is linked in the first chapter, but i'm also gonna be posting relevant shit [over here on my rvb sideblog](http://toomanychurches.tumblr.com/tagged/metal%20now). it's sparse right now but hopefully i will overcome my nerves and actually put up pictures of the robot designs

He only asks once what _exactly_ it is that Washington does for Necessity: shrugging into a bulky jacket with garish yellow highlights, his guardian mumbles something about security and locks the door behind him. 

Good enough for Church. It _does_ explain the weird hours, not to mention what an obvious jock would be doing at a tech corporation.

So by the second week, after he’s gotten an idea of how long Washington’s shifts are, he decides to take advantage.

With a last minute listen to the apartment hallway -- _just_ in case, can’t have him coming back and catching him -- and an extra check on the interior locks, Church feels like a rebellious teen detective. Like… a Hardy Drive Boy. He snickers to himself. 

He’s mildly surprised when the spare room isn’t locked. With Washington’s vehemence, he’d half expected to have to break in, but the doorknob twists easily in his grasp. 

Not that he strictly _needs_ to, but flicking the overhead light on means that Church doesn’t have to wait for his optics to adjust to the gloom of a room without windows, and lets him get straight to work examining whatever it is that officer Washington wants to keep hidden. 

The contents are slightly disappointing, to say the least. Maybe _really_ disappointing. Church had been picturing a secret staircase, or a drug lab, or maybe some curing meat. Probably people meat. 

Instead, it seems to just be somebody’s workspace. A huge desk takes up most of the far wall, three monitors fighting for their rightful space on its surface, and a tower underneath, where someone’s legs would ostensibly go. It’s also littered with sticky notes and pens that have clearly been chewed.

Cataloguing all of that in a split second, Church frowns and turns to look around the room, taking in the rest of the environment. He’d _really_ been expecting something more nefarious. It’s not a huge space -- smaller than the bedroom for sure -- and the rest of it is taken up by bookshelves. He’s starting to read the titles with his head tilted for ease ( mostly books on physics and programming languages, but an entire shelf is taken up by scifi dvds ), when he hears a trilling _mrrrrrp_ and a quiet jingling.

“Aw, shit.” He mutters to himself, spinning around just in time to spot Kylie hop up onto the computer, turning herself around atop it with little difficulty. “No, no, no. You’re not supposed to be here. Come on, you can’t go leaving cat hair and giving me away, or something.”

She lies down, end to end on the elevated plastic, and looks up to blink indolently at him.

When Church scoops her up and tries to close the door behind him onehanded, she _cries_ , meowing with a strange desperate edge to her voice. He has to let her down, fumbling, cursing under his breath at having his exploration foiled. Not by the cat so much as by having gotten his hopes up. It figures that Washington’s big dark secret would just be a geeky work studio; he probably just hadn’t thrown out his ex’s stuff yet.

There’s a twinge in his systems, a moment where he hangs, too much of his processing power suddenly taken up by projected scenarios. When his thoughts kickstart properly again, he realizes that the thought of Washington still being hung up on this guy is concerning. Deeply concerning.

Even more concerning is the fact that he thinks _he should be paying attention to me instead_.

* * *

Another week passes before he gets his wish.

“Hey.” 

Church looks up to see Washington standing in the hallway junction, a plastic basket full of clothes tucked under his arm, the other held out to gesture at him. “Want me to throw those in?” 

“Huh?” Church looks down, plucking at the hem of his shirt to hold it out. It’s the same one he was issued in the labs, and the same one he arrived here in; dark grey with the company logo on the breast. It matches his pants. “Oh, nah, I’m good. You think they’re gonna improve on humans and still include sweat glands, or something?”

“No, but _apparently_ they didn’t include table manners, either.” Dropping his hand, Washington sighs and takes a step closer to him. “Seriously, you’re covered in stains, you’ve _got_ to let me wash those. What even _is_ the one on your knee?”

“Grape jelly, I made myself a sandwich the other day.” He answers easily, after a swift skim through his memory banks. “Dude, if this is some ploy to get me naked, let me tell you, the technicians usually just told me to str--”

“ _That’s not the point!_ You’re an _appliance_ , there isn’t anything to see! ” Washington’s voice spikes in pitch when he interrupts, his face flushing. “And I can lend you some clothes, if it’s that big of a deal to you!”

Church is on his feet instantly, but even then, he’s barely up to his guardian’s chin. “Oh, _how generous._ Why the special treatment, Washington? I don’t see your _toaster_ all dressed up.” He sneers up at him, fists clenched.

He must realize what a fumble he’s made, because Washington reaches to drag a palm over his face, the other still balancing the laundry basket against his hip. “Look. I have to clean your uniform. If that makes you uncomfortable, I’ll get you some of my clothes to wear in the meantime.”

“Oh yeah, that works. Except that your taste is fucking awful.” Arms crossed, Church gets in his personal space until he’s glaring from a few inches away. “And I guess you’re gonna magically shrink them so that I can actually move around, huh?”

Washington actually drops the basket when he throws his hands up, his palms forward in the universal gesture of _i fucking give up_. “ _Fine._ Whatever. You know where my stuff is, go look for yourself.”

Well. Good enough. Having gotten permission, Church doesn’t hesitate to trot down the hall and into Washington’s room, peeking around once he’s properly inside. “This it?” He calls back when he reaches the wardrobe, yanking the top drawer open without waiting for an answer. It does _not_ contain pyjamas, like he’d thought it might.

“Should be-- Hey!” Washington stalks over, slapping a pair of briefs out of the grinning sim’s hands. “Next one down, creep.”

Church lets out an actual laugh, shoving the drawer full of underthings back into position. “Cool, got it.” He shoots back, before he reaches down to skip the next one, and pull the third drawer out instead. “This one?”

Washington opens his mouth to protest, but closes it again after a second, leaning back to watch Church shuffle through the contents. Maybe he just figures that it’s not worth the skirmish.

It’s mostly teeshirts and sweatpants, but there are a few cotton buttondowns and jeans. All of them are some measure of _casual_ , most of them are fraying or threadbare, and _all_ of them are at least two sizes too small for Washington. “Oh, hey! These might actually fit me!” Church exclaims with pleasure, holding up a blue shirt. “When did you grow outta these?” 

When he doesn’t hear an answer, Church looks up to see why, and instead sees Washington regarding him strangely. “... You know what? You can keep the stuff in there. Just take your pick.” His voice sounds heavy as he turns around, making his way back to where he had left it on the floor. “Shouldn’t be wearing the same thing every day, anyway.”

He closes the door behind him, and Church assumes that he’s gone down to the laundry room, leaving his current outfit for the next load. He’s mildly startled when he opens the door again and finds him leaning against the wall, clearly waiting for him. 

Shoving the dirty clothes into his grasp, Church pushes past him without a _thank you_ to take up his usual place on the couch. He doesn’t want to dwell on how pleasantly surprised he is to have been given privacy to change, instead of watched every minute.

* * *

“What’s wrong with you?”

Church startles, before turning away from Washington by a few degrees. “What? Nothing! There’s nothing wrong with me.”

Washington just rolls his eyes, holding a hand out to gesture at his left arm. “You’ve been favoring that. Is it sprained?” Blinking as he realizes what he just said, he scratches at the back of his skull idly. “ _Can_ you even get a sprain? What is that, a muscle thing?”

“It’s _fine._ ” Church snarls up at him, hunching his shoulders and grabbing his arm just above the elbow with his opposite hand; it’s only _partially_ to keep it in place. He’s not about to tell his minder that his hardware has been tetchy, and _especially_ not why. “Mind your own business, why don’t you.”

“I’m pretty sure it _is_ my business. Given that apparently, you’re just here as a test run.” He sighs and folds his arms, his voice taking that _i’m not in the mood to argue_ tone. “So if you’re damaged or something, it’s my duty to take care of it. Right?”

Snorting just to make sure his disbelief is fully understood, Church tilts his head, suspicious. “You don’t really seem like the engineering type. No offense, or anything!” Which is a lie. He _does_ mean to cause offense. “I just didn’t know that even Necessity’s security guards were trained to repair our extremely delicate and expensive equipment.”

Washington looks down, a crooked frown painting his face again. “Last guy who lived here insisted on building his computer from scratch. You can’t watch a man put together a tower with his own hands without picking up _something._ ” That frown eases, and something almost wistful ghosts across his face. “Especially when he’s shrieking about every little mistake he makes.”

There’s that momentary hang again, before Church finds his voice. Why do his systems keep skipping a beat when this guy’s old boyfriends come up? He shakes his head as though to clear it, focusing on the present. “Yeah, _well!_ That’s pretty different from putting a sim together!”

“Look, do you want to go back to the labs for repairs?”

Scowling, Church weighs the pros and cons of returning early for a moment -- they might let him talk to the other sims, or they might decide that he was too fragile and had to be kept there for revisions -- before he slowly turns to Washington.

“There’s a wire that came loose in the shoulder. It works fine sometimes, but when I move certain ways it goes unresponsi--”

“Got it. Stay there. I’ll be right back.” He turns and vanishes into the spare room, shuffling around for something audibly for a few moments. When he returns, he’s got what looks like a small, silver briefcase in one hand.

“The hell is that?” Church squints at it, something about the shape ringing oddly familiar. The man doesn’t answer him verbally, instead walking around the table to the other side of him and sitting down. Propping an ankle up on the opposite knee, he balances the case in his lap, flips up two clasps and cracks it open; revealing rows of high end tools. Every single one is a Necessity product. “Holy _shit._ Your ex was serious about this crap.”

“Yes, he was.” Washington’s voice is oddly emotionless, while he picks out the small, handheld sauter. “Can you get your casing open for me?”

“Gonna have to split the skin, dude.” He snickers at the way that Washington blanches at that. “Don’t worry, man! It’s selfhealing. As long as the cut’s clean, it’ll bind back together in a few days.” His clothes won’t, however, so he wriggles out of the tattered shirt he’s been lazing about in.

Washington stares at him for a moment, before he puts the tool away, and pulls out a delicate utility knife instead. “You’d better not be pulling my leg, or something. I am _not_ getting in shit because you thought it would be funny to have me blamed for slicing you up.”

Fortunately, Officer Washington is good with knives. He makes a clean incision around the shoulder joint, then sits back to watch Church show him the exact location of the problem. 

Grunting quietly, he peels the synthetic covering back and digs his fingertips into the seam above his sculpted clavicle, splitting that section of his torso open. It doesn’t _hurt_ , per se, but there’s still the analogue of a nervous system in those parts, and Church tries to block out a hot ache spreading through his upper left quadrant. Some light selfpreservation subroutine screams in the back of his head that _fresh air should definitely not be circulating there_.

“Just hurry it up, would you?” He mutters, reaching inside his shoulder to point at a slightly frayed wire, loose from one of its moorings and just barely curling at the end. 

With a sigh, Washington puts down the sauter and picks up a pair of incredibly narrow pliers instead, leaning over him to get a better view of the wire he’s trying to grab a hold of. The low heat radiating from Church’s chest is overtaken by a sharp surge of feeling as Washington’s knuckles brush against the inside of his casing. 

He doesn’t realize he’s yelped until he sees that Washington is sitting back, staring at him with plain confusion. “Does that hurt?” Washington’s brows are furrowed, and for the first time that day he looks genuinely concerned. “Why did they make you… Why can you feel pain?”

Holding the arm steady with his working hand, Church tries to regulate his breathing, his processor overheating again with the struggle of filtering so much data at once. “It’s not pain, so much, just… Weird. Like… Being tickled, I guess?” Not that he’s ever _been_ tickled, but it’s the closest comparison he can think of. It’s not bad, it’s actually kind of nice; but it took him by surprise and it’s weirdly intense.

“Alright…” Washington doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he’s uncurled the wire, and keeps his mouth shut as he reaches for the sauter again. When he reaches inside him and melts the frayed tip back onto the port it’s supposed to be connected to, Church is afraid that he might just melt along with it. He sinks against the couch, trying for a moment to find the terminology for what he’s experiencing, before he lets go and just enjoys the heat pulsing through him.

“There. Should be good to go.” The proclamation snaps Church out of his daze, prompts him to scramble upright and slap his paneling shut. He’s still trying to shake the stupor of overburdening from his processors as he presses the synthetic skin down to seal the access cut. It helps to know that the material is already fusing again, tiny drops of adhesive rushing to where his sensors indicate exposure to oxygen. The split will be back to normal in a matter of days at the most.

Stretching his arm in a slow windmill, Church lets go of the wound, testing the fritzy arm; he finds it satisfactory. For the last few days, reaching above his head would spark a strange _pulling_ feeling in his shoulder, before the arm would go limp, leaving him single handed until the connection happened to pop back into place. It started out infrequently enough, but has become more and more of a problem, until apparently even Washington noticed.

“No thank you, huh.” Washington asks, watching him wave his arm in circles. “Guess that makes sense. What did you even do to it?”

Church scowls and rockets onto his feet, any thoughts of gratitude pushed out of his mind. “ _Nothing!_ It’s just normal wear and tear! God, don’t you know _anything!_ ” Stomping away, he slams the bathroom door and locks it, determined to sulk in there until Washington either apologizes or begs for entry.

Pretty much _anything_ is preferable to admitting that he’d been playing with the cats. He hadn’t expected to have to shake Buddy off of his hand quite _that_ hard; a cursory glance at the internet informed him belatedly that roughhousing wasn’t the best idea.

At least the selfhealing aspects of his synthetic skin meant that the scratches were already faded from his forearm.

* * *

“Hey, Washing-- whoa. The fuck’s going on in here? Smells like the chemical floor.” And if even he can smell it, the scent must be _powerful_.

Standing in front of the washbasin in nothing but a pair of ratty pyjama bottoms, Washington looks up from the instruction pamphlet he’d been peering at, his face turning dark at the intrusion. “Dude! _Hello!_ The door was closed for a reason! What if I was actually _using_ the bathroom, or something?” 

“Oh, _whatever._ Nothing I don’t already know and hate about human biology.” Rolling his eyes, Church closes the door; behind him, that is. This is the most exciting thing to happen within his space in nearly a week.

He leans over towards the sink, making eye contact through the mirror once he’s in front of it. “Geeze, just maintaining the status quo? If you’re gonna go to all the trouble of dying it, you should change things up. Maybe some blue streaks? You know, go crazy.”

“I’m not going crazy!” Washington snaps, before shaking his head and screwing the squirt cap onto the bottle. “I’m not going too crazy _with my hair_. The way I’ve been wearing it is fine, and also? I didn’t ask for your opinion! Now go… Do whatever it is you do when I’m not around.”

“But I’m boooooooooooored.” Church whines, slouching over the counter and flicking his fingers at the empty package of activating powder. “D’you need any help? Must be pretty tough to get the back of your head with just one mirror in here.”

Washington rolls his eyes. “I’m just going to dye the whole thing, and shave the sides in a week or so. My roots come in pretty fast.” 

“Dude, come on. I’m right here. You might as well take advantage of there being an extra set of hands around the place.” He snatches the squeeze bottle out of Washington’s grasp, holding up his free hand and waggling his fingers. “It’ll even save you the gloves. Chemical and acid resistant, remember?” 

“Bleach is a _base_.” He mumbles, even while he complies as Church slaps a hand on his shoulder and nudges him back and down to sit on the edge of the bathtub. 

“Whatever, man. Still applies. Just hold still, and hold your nose. This stuff is fuckin’ pungent.” Church shakes the bottle, flipping it to squirt a generous portion onto his palm. “And _your_ skin _isn’t_ made of vastly superior protective polymer.”

* * *

Meals become something of a regular thing. Industrial security gives a pretty erratic schedule, but Washington seems to have a routine down, and Church catches onto it fairly swiftly. In the afternoons he leaves for work, and around midnight he lets himself in. Later if it’s a friday or saturday and “the crew” manage to convince him to go out for drinks. That happened a lot more often when Church first arrived, honestly. Then he eats something, passes out, and wakes up at what most people would consider a normal time. Which, of course, only leaves him with about five hours of sleep, on a good night. Then it’s what passes for breakfast in this household, and working out or reading until it’s time to get ready for work. 

Wash: rinse and repeat.

Church lets out a snort at his own joke, derailing his train of thought and spraying bits of reheated noodles back into the box. His guardian furrows his brow and sends him a look ( the one that says _i don’t know what the fuck you’re doing and i’m perfectly happy with that_ ), and puts down his own bowl of leftovers. 

Eying Church out of the corner of his vision, Washington takes a minute to think as he observes him. Finally, he swallows the mouthful of food and tilts his head forward a degree. “So. How come you can eat, anyway?”

“I explained already, dipwad.” Church doesn’t even chew, mumbling around a cascade of lo mein in response. “Make the consumer more comfortable, remember?”

“No, no. I mean, yeah, I do remember.” Washington lets out a sigh, fixing his gaze on the food in front of him. Every line of his posture radiates _this probably isn’t worth it_ , but he forges on ahead regardless. “What I _meant_ , was. How is it possible? I didn’t think that androids would need to use the bathroom.”

“Wow, _that’s_ not forward, or anything. Don’t tell me you’re into scat.” There’s a laugh edging into his tone, and the faintest hint of a smile around the tail end of the noodles he’s slurping up. 

“ _Jesus christ_.” Washington puts his bowl of takeout down, his appetite apparently waning. “Nevermind.”

“Alright, alright, sorry. It’s just, I dunno… Doesn’t seem like you’d be interested in what makes me tick.” Church backpedals hurriedly, stabbing his chopsticks into the box and leaving them sticking up. If there’s one thing he knows he likes, after all, it’s talking about himself. “You really wanna know?”

“Yes!” Washington seems to rethink his response for a split second, before clarifying. “I mean, not if there’s actual scat involved. But I was wondering how you don’t just… Get noodles and junk gumming up your gears, or whatever.”

Church just scoffs, pulling up his shirt to tap the plastic right above where his ribs would be, if he had a classical skeleton. “It all goes into the reservoir, which is sorta like… Like a gas tank, I guess. Except that it doesn’t _need_ to be full, that’s just... “ It occurs to him -- somewhat belatedly -- as he watches Washington’s face fall, that he isn’t particularly _good_ at explaining his functions. 

He forges onwards with a frustrated huff. “Whatever, it’s just the tank where everything gets stored before processing. After the reservoir is a filter, and that takes all the useable moisture and converts it to a specialized synthetic liquid that acts as both coolant that keeps heat distributed evenly through the system, and a lubricant that prevents joints from locking up. Other elements are harvested for use when possible, such as protein for the healing adhesive. Waste is temporarily stored in the vent until purging is an option.” Realizing that he’s talking like the whitecoats, Church tries to switch tracks, to sound like his usual self. “It’s more efficient than the system you apes have got, not to mention? Waaaay less gross.” He can’t help but grin just a little bit. “You regret asking, yet?”

Staring at him over his food, and apparently not put off, Washington actually looks sincerely thoughtful. “No, it’s… It’s interesting. I guess there was a lot more work put into you than I thought.”

Church puffs out his chest, a real smile plucking at the sides of his mouth. “Of course there was! You think they just threw me together at the last minute, or something?”

“Mmmmm.” He hums quietly, sounding pensive. “The guy who designed you must have been pretty smart. Not to mention dedicated.”

Church blows a raspberry, not bothering to disguise his frustration. “Yeah, well. Not that I’ll ever get to know for myself. Guy bit the dust before they were ready to activate any of us.”

Washington’s jaw drops; until now, Church hadn’t known that the turn of phrase was quite so literal. “You… You know about that?”

“Uh… Well. I guess you’re not exactly going to rat me out.” The sim shrugs, his leftovers forgotten on the side table. “I went sniffing around the company intranet, read about the team that put us together. Where do you think I got the name? I got the best one because I was the one that found ‘em.”

“ _What?_ So you just… Named yourself?” 

“Uh, yeah. We all did, dude. You think we actually talk to each other using _Alpha_ and shit? We all kinda just picked out the name we liked the most. I called dibs." He looks proud for a moment, before he screws up his face. “Of course, maybe if I’d noticed that his first was _Leonard_ , I would’ve thought twice. Guy’s parents must have really hated him.”

“One did, at least.” Washington mumbles, before clearing his throat and trying to phrase his next question right. “So, alright, how many of you _are_ there?”

“Uuuuh, let’s see… There’s me, I was activated first because I’m obviously the most important. Being the standard conversasim that all the others are based on.” He doesn’t even try not to sound smug. “Then there’s Tucker, Caboose, and Grif… Uuuuh, Simmons… Sarge isn’t actually named after anybody, same as…” Church pauses for a second, weighing the risks associated with divulging all this information. “Weeeeeell, I’m probably not supposed to tell you about Donut or Sister… but it’s not like _you’re_ going to leak the company secrets. Do you even have any friends to talk to?”

Far from responding to the insult, Washington just stares back, looking like a truck just hit him. “And… None of you have ever met the people whose names you took.” 

“Well, no.” Church shrugs, gesturing helplessly. “From the records, it looks like the whole project had a staff changeover a little while before they turned me on. Swapped everybody around after the team leader kicked it.”

“And… do you know how he died? Anything about that?”

“Nnnnnnope.” He hopes that the casual air in his voice is believable. “Trust me, I looked. It wasn’t in the files, anywhere. The way the other engineers talked about him, though, sounds like he was sick for a pretty long time.”

Washington gulps. “Yeah. I guess you could say that.”

It earns him a curious look. “Did you know him?”

His guardian mouths something, too quiet for even Church’s sensors to pick up. Washington’s eyes are glassy as he rises slowly to his feet, staring at the sim like he can see right through him. “Ex… cuse me. I think I need to talk to somebody.”

Church tilts his head to peer at him curiously, but doesn’t say anything to stop the man as he walks back to his bedroom.

* * *

“Suicide.”

Church glances away from the screen, realizing belatedly that he’d gotten so involved in the game that he started to lean forward in his seat. Easing back against the couch cushions, he gestures at the screen with impotent frustration. “God, dude, I know. Did he actually think that he could _make_ that pass? Pathetic.”

“What? No, I…” Washington sighs, reaching up to scratch at the back of his neck. “I thought that maybe we should talk some more. The guy who designed you. Leonard L. Church Jr.”

“Oh. Well, shit.” Now he feels like a bit of a tool for having brought it up. “So you _did_ know him, huh?” That probably explains his agitation about the name, too.

“... Yeah, I guess you could say that. I found him.”

“... _Oh._ Fuck.” Church blinks, shifting his attention away from the screen fully, now. Staring at Washington for a moment, he moves over slightly on the couch to make more space. “Do you, uh, wanna talk about it, or anything?”

“Not really.” He responds drily, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “... But I feel like I probably should.”

Church nods, uncharacteristically serious. “Well, that’s sort of what I’m here for, man.” If the tester is willing to broach the subject, this could be a good way to reinforce his pattern replication for dealing with grief. 

Silent for a moment, Washington remains frozen with his hands in his jeans, looking _anywhere_ but straight at Church. “I was supposed to pick him up after work, but he just kind of. Never showed up. We were gonna go out for dinner to celebrate, he’d been positive that… Well, there was this meeting with the Director, and he thought that it’d go better…” He stares at Church for a long moment, met with silence. “Is this… ringing any bells?”

“Nope. Sorry, dude, they left all of that jazz out of the files. It’s sad as hell, though. You must’ve been close, huh?” He pats the vacant space on the couch beside him, gesturing towards the television again. “Look, I’m not a psychiasim, I can’t really help you much, here. But what I _can_ do, is distract you. That’s almost as good, right?”

Washington blinks, before letting out what might be the first real, genuine laugh that Church has heard out of him. “Yeah. Yeah, almost. Don’t know what I expected, really.” But as he says it, he’s easing his weight down, even propping an ankle up on the opposite knee. 

Sitting in _his spot_ , with Wash next to him in _his_ spot; it’s comfortable. So comfortable, in fact, that Church starts to forget. 

And in forgetting, he remembers.

Delivering that information didn’t _quite_ have the dramatic effect that Washington seemed to be hoping for; everything didn’t just _click_ into place, or come flooding back. But it jostled something, sent him scanning deep in his logs absently, practically tripping over a folder buried in a directory he’d never had need to investigate before. The probe recognizes it as audiovisual files, cuts the whole of them and brings them to the /MEMORY library for more focused perusal later. But just the act of relocating them shuffles his access route, drops them straight into his shortterm recollection.

So when the Eagles _magnificently_ fumble a pass in the final period and throw the game with a single point’s difference, it’s not Church _the Alpha build_ who heaves his weight back against the couch, throws his head back, and lets out a groan.

“Son of a _bitch!_ Great. Just _great._ Now I owe York like, twenty bucks.”

“I _told_ you not to make that bet, Ch--” Washington seems to have forgotten for a moment, too. When he catches himself, he turns slowly to look at the droid, his eyes wide. “... Church? How do you know York?”

“... How would I _not_ know York?” Church rolls his eyes. “Hellooooo? We go on doubledates with them like, all the time. Too often, if you ask me! Which nobody ever does.”

Washington is frozen in place, his eyes now wide enough to see the sclera all around his irises. “How do you know that?” He practically whispers.

“... Uh, dude? We saw ‘em like, last week.” Church laughs, trying to brush off what bizarre reaction he’s getting.

“... No, we didn’t.” Swallowing audibly, Washington turns towards him in his seat. “The last time I saw York and Carolina was… Was at the funeral.”

The moment that he needs to parse that is only a fraction of a second on the outside. “Pffff, _yeah_ , alright. If you wanna punk me, you gotta do better than _that_ , Wash. You should know better than anybody that I never lose that much at once. My memory’s pretty shitty sometimes, but come _on._ ”

Washington’s voice cracks just a fraction as he reaches a hand cautiously across the couch. “I… _Church?_ ”

“Yeah? Who the fuck do you think--” Despite his tone, he reaches for Wash’s hand to comfort him, bringing his hand into his field of vision. He glances at the back of his wrist, frowning deeply at the visible joint. He _told_ the plastics department to make the exterior opaque, they didn’t want to frighten the owners; but his focus on that just draws attention to the light blue lines and numbers crowding the edges of his sight. 

For whatever reason, _that’s_ what does it. Two sets of memories find the order they’re supposed to be in, and snap into place. The cracks between the puzzle pieces close up. The pin drops.

“Oh, _fuck._ ” Church whispers, lifting his eyes to stare at Washington. “I’m a ghost.”

* * *

Washington has taken to pacing on the other side of the table, passing back and forth in front of the muted grifball game. “Look, I can’t… I can’t really tell you exactly what he was thinking. He left me a video, but y-- his dad had it censored before they sent it to me. Fucking _censored!_ When it was meant for me! Just bleeping out their goddam ‘sensitive information’ like I wouldn’t know this was their fault.” He takes a deep breath to interrupt the longest stream of words Church has heard out of him, and stares at his hands. They’re trembling just minutely. 

It’s more emotion than Church has seen from him since he arrived, and he doesn’t know how he feels about that. “Their fault? What does _that_ mean?”

He eyes him. “I’m… not sure I should tell you. After what happened last time…”

“ _Wash._ ” It’s probably cheating to call him that now, but he hasn’t corrected him. “I can’t not know. And you know I’ll figure it out eventually.”

Washington takes a deep breath. “All that was untouched on the vidnote was that the, uh. Product pitch hadn’t gone over very well. That it wasn’t what they were looking for.”

 _It hadn’t_ ever _been what he was looking for._

Church startles and squeezes his eyes shut, suddenly breathing like a man starved for oxygen. It’s not affectation, either: his systems are too hot, kicked into overdrive as he tries to sift through the rush of memories called to the surface. 

He remembers his palms sweating as he waits for the meeting to begin. Fumbling his way through it with what he’d _thought_ was uncharacteristic aplomb. His father sitting at the head of the table opposite, silent and sternfaced for the entire proceedings. The uncertain look that Simmons kept sending him from the other side of the holoboard, his hands shaking on his tablet. The Director finally opening his mouth not with praise or even objective approval, but to ask whether the person the programs were based on would have to be alive. The confused look between the computer engineers, before Leonard L. Church Jr. stammers that yes, of course, you can’t map somebody’s thoughts into data matrices if they aren’t _thinking_. He thought that was obvi--

He remembers his father silencing him with a single gesture, a skill he’s had for years, and turning towards the assistant standing behind him. Asking whether the meeting tomorrow looked any more promising. Phyllis’ nails tapping on the screen of her tablet, somehow deafening over the shuffling of shareholders and program directors making their way out of the room, before she answers no, Mister Director. 

He remembers the realization that his work had never been of interest to him. Not until it gave the appearance of being a way to bring his mom back. 

He remembers kicking a chair over on his way out the door, a petulant show of anger that prompts a startled squeal from Simmons and a disdainful grunt from the Director. Stomping back to the labs, punching a wall in the elevator on the way and managing to bruise his knuckles.

He remembers loading up the collection of test scans, copies of his friends and coworkers with hearts beating in ones and zeros. Locating the file he’s after, labelled with his own name, nestled between the others. Bypassing the security that he himself had installed, since it might be dangerous to do a scan alone in the workshop. What if something went wrong?

He remembers thinking _you want to see if we can mass produce a dead person? fine. here’s your prototype._

It all unspools behind his eyelids in a few fractions of a second, leaving him scrabbling through his folders in search of something, anything else that might help him put the story of how he got here together.

The last thing in the folder is a text document with only three lines:

I was instructed to erase these, but they might come in handy where you’re going.  
Still want the best for all of you.  
-S

When he opens his optics, Wash is standing over him, hands on his shoulders. “Church? _Church_. Alpha?”

“What happened after that?” Church rasps, his hand finding the front of Washington’s shirt and making a fist in it, clinging to him. He needs an anchor, right now.

“What?” The other man looks confused, his brow furrowed. “After what?”

“ _After I made the flashcopy_ , Wash! I didn’t… Oh fuck. Oh fuck, I was just so fucking _angry_ , why did I--”

Washington lets go of his shoulders, looking almost frightened to touch him. Like he’s illusionary. “You… You were made that night?”

“We updated most of them, we had to whenever possible, to have as wide a range of experiences-- Gah! _Why am I explaining this now!_ I need to know what happened!”

“I… I don’t really know. I waited for… for him for almost an hour, but he wasn’t answering my texts. I figured he just got into his groove typing, or something, so I let myself in. He gave my pass access to his workshop, so…” He swallows loudly, suddenly unable to look directly at the sim. “I found him in the corner. We were… We were supposed to go out for--”

“For pizza.” Church finishes for him, trying to fight off the ghostly feeling of Wash’s knuckles tangled through his when they confirmed it that morning. 

“Jesus christ. You really are him, aren’t you? I mean… A copy of him. Not just some kind of weird, fucked up idea of a tribute.” Bringing a hand up, Wash covers his mouth with his palm, his eyes traveling over the sim from top to bottom and back again. “The Director, I… I thought he was trying to replace you, or maybe doing this in your honor. But I guess it really is just the trial run before production, isn’t it?”

There’s too much in that confession to react to, too many points that Church has to get angry about; so he zeroes on in on the most offensive to him. “What the _fuck!_ And they gave me to _you_ for data gathering?” He looks down at his hands again, his face twisted in fury. “They gave me to you when they _made me look like this?_ Is this a fucking _joke?_ ”

Wash laughs, but there’s no humor in his voice. “That’s what I said, remember?” 

Church buries his hands in his hair, wishing that he could properly feel the tug on his scalp when he pulls at it. “Fuck. _Fuck._ I didn’t authorize any of this, unless… Unless I said something in that message after the scan, but that wouldn’t certify the others for production…” Wash sits next to him and puts his hands down, trying to keep them still on his lap while he lets him ramble. “It can’t be legal, it just can’t be. I went over their contracts myself, every _fucking page_ , those scans were for testing only…” He trails off, still clutching his head, lost in thought.

“The others.” Wash prompts him after a moment, inching closer on the couch. “The ones you mentioned earlier… They all sounded like your friends’ names.”

That gets a laugh, and Church finally lifts his head to look at him. “For a given value of friends, yeah.” In other words, those with low enough standards for company to tolerate his acerbic attitude. “It was mostly internal, mostly colleagues… We were allowed to bring in friends or family, though. Fuck, _fuck_ , why did I invite Donut? What the fuck was I thinking!” 

“So what you’re telling me, here. Is that. Okay.” A deep breath, and Wash starts to tick off issues on his fingers, counting aloud. “Not only do you _look_ like my dead boyfriend -- _great_ design choice, by the way, not weird for me at all -- but you’re actually a copy of him from the night he killed himself. Most likely the first of many reproductions, so once it’s approved, there’s going to be tons of dead boyfriends walking around and _being purchased._ _And_ , there’s a bunch of copies of people he knew still running around in the lab, destined for the same mass production, which might be even more creepy since they’re presumably still alive.” When he lifts his gaze to stare at Church, he looks exhausted. “Does that about cover it?”

Church freezes, silent for what feels like an eternity internally, before he manages to find something to say. “I think that, just maybe, there is the possibility here to consider, that I might potentially have fucked up.”

Wash snorts, and with an air of caution, reaches to ruffle his hair lightly. “Glad to see that you still have his talent for understatement.”


End file.
